


The Ratan Bumbershoot Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:08:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and Napoleon are volunteered by Mr. Waverly to escort Phildelia Estabrook  around to see the sights... of the world.  And THRUSH just can't stay away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ratan Bumbershoot Affair

 

 

             Illya Kuryakin bit down on his roll and winced at the pain that lanced through one of his teeth.  Involuntarily, his hand moved to his jaw and massaged it gently.  It was frustrating to him how something as simple as a sore tooth could cause this much discomfort.  Then and again, a man could die from a few grams of metal if it was strategically placed.  

 

            "Haven't you had that taken care of yet," asked a voice from across the table.

 

            Illya glared over at his friend and partner, and frowned at Napoleon Solo's smiling face.  "I’m assuming the question is rhetorical since it is obvious I have not." Illya dropped his hand and shifted his chewing to the other side of his mouth, ignoring the dull throb.

 

            "I don't know why you're so afraid of dentists. I mean, seriously, Illya, you've faced much worse torture at the hands of THRUSH.  Our dentists are very good – they put your jaw back together and saved most of your teeth." Solo dabbed delicately at the corners of his mouth.  “And I know you’re not afraid of needles – I’ve seen you sew yourself up in the field too many times.  What is the problem?”

 

             "I just don't like dentists, I've told you that." He pushed aside his tray of half‑eaten food. It was against his nature to waste food, but his mouth hurt too much to continue.  That action alone spoke volumes to his partner.

 

            Solo shook his head, annoyed.  "I should tell Mr. Waverly.  He'd make you do something about it."  

 

            "Napoleon, don't," Illya pleaded, in new distress.  There would be no recourse if their superior found out. "I'll visit the dentist soon, I promise."

 

            "Like when?"

 

            "Like next month sometime."

 

            "Try this afternoon.  I'm going to take you there, personally, if I have to.  If it's the pain you're worried about, ours can put you to sleep.  You won’t feel a thing"

 

            "You mean like they do to dogs?"

 

            Solo laughed, recognizing the fact that he wasn't going to win this round.  He reached for his coffee and had the cup halfway to his mouth when the loudspeaker crackled to life.

 

            "Will Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin report to Mr. Waverly's office?"

 

            "No rest for the wicked."  Illya snatched at the reprieve from the argument and rose to his feet.

 

             "I'm making you an appointment."

 

            "I won't keep it," Illya insisted.

 

            “You will if I’m holding a gun to your head…or unconscious or both.”

 

 

 

            They were still arguing the point as they walked into Mr. Waverly's office.  However, they both fell silent when it became obvious that there was a guest at the circular conference table. The silvered head turned in their direction and vivid blue eyes twinkled good humor at them. Solo shifted involuntarily beneath the gaze before finding his usual suavity.  They seem to cut right to his soul, as campy as that sounded.  He felt like he was suddenly fillet and everything that was Napoleon Solo was laid out for everyone to see.  It was a disquieting sensation, one he’d never experienced before.  He pulled his eyes from her to glance at his partner, but the Russian stood quietly, awaiting instruction from their superior.  He didn’t seem to share Solo’s discomfort and that gave him the ability to shake off the feeling and speak directly to their guest.

 

            "Good day, Ma'am." He smiled politely at her and found himself rewarded with a huge smile in return.  Even Illya's usual sober expression softened as he gave a short bow in her direction.

 

            "Gentlemen," Alexander Waverly replaced the phone he'd been speaking into as they entered and gestured them to seats.  "I would like you to meet Phidelia Estabrook, a recent visitor to our shores.  Mrs. Estabrook, these are the young men we spoke about: Napoleon Solo and his partner, Illya Kuryakin."  He nodded in turn to each man.

 

            "Definitely an honor and a pleasure to welcome such a lovely lady to our midst,"  Solo said, letting his charm bring the merest hint of a blush to the elderly woman's pale cheeks and she gathered a huge umbrella close to her.  Illya rolled his eyes and smirked.

 

            “Oh, Alexander, he’s as big a flirt as you said.  I’m going to like him.”  Her Bostonian accent was strong, obviously from one of the older families in the city.  She turned her expression to Illya.  “And you, there’s a time to be stubborn.  You should listen to your friend and have that looked at.”  Illya silently mouthed, ‘how?” to his partner who hunched his shoulders and shook his head.  Phidelia, beaming, shifted her blue-eye gaze from one to the other.  "Alexander, these are absolutely splendid specimens! So fit and certainly well informed, why you can almost smell the intelligence wafting off of them   Are all the men here like them?"

 

            "No, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin are both rather unique, each in his own separate way."

 

            "That's a certainty," Illya murmured to Solo.  The return glance he was given assured him the point had been taken. 

 

            "I shall certainly feel comfortable and protected with them."    One hand rubbed the top of her cane umbrella absent-mindedly as the other smoothed wrinkles out of the neat dress set she wore. It was a red so vibrant it almost seemed alive and shimmered beneath the fluorescent lights of the office.

 

            "Sir, I'm not sure I'm familiar with this conversation," Solo said to Waverly, as the old man reached for his tobacco pouch.  "Exactly what are we talking about?"

 

             "Mrs. Estabrook is a person of great importance, gentlemen, and we have been asked to afford her protection while she takes in some of the sights."

 

            "Of New York?"

 

             "Of the world, Mr. Solo.  You will take the UNCLE Lear jet."  He nodded to the woman.  "Mr. Kuryakin has the qualifications to fly it," he assured her as he spun the table.  A folder stopped before the Russian and he pulled out his reading glasses.  “You will find him a very adequate pilot.” 

 

            “Just as long as we don’t have to land on any more glaciers,” Solo murmured to his partner, who smiled as he slipped on his glasses and began to read.

 

            “Of that I have no doubts.  He’s young, but I see a very old soul in those eyes.”  The aforementioned eyes flicked over the top of his glasses to her momentarily and then returned to the folder’s contents.  “And Mr. Solo, how could any woman not feel protected with him at her side.  I shall be the envy of every place we pause.”

 

            The two UNCLE agents exchanged uneasy glances ‑ Waverly's assertion about the woman's importance was obviously a severe understatement.  Only Heads of State were given such liberties with the organization's equipment and personnel.

 

            Illya shifted in his chair, his expression troubled even to the casual observer.   "Is there something wrong, Mr. Kuryakin?"  Waverly asked, without glancing up from his task and Solo caught himself wondering if Illya had been caught up in his own net of avoidance.  If Waverly discovered the Russian was in less than top form, he’d soon set things right.

 

            The man paused, as if weighing his words very carefully before speaking.  "Sir, if Napoleon and I are assigned to her, won't that attract every THRUSH operative in the world?  We're not exactly unknown to them.  UNCLE might do better to assign two less recognized agents."  He stopped, smiling in the woman's direction.  "I have nothing against escorting Mrs. Estabrook or the mission itself, but this is definitely a factor to consider."

 

            "I already have, Mr. Kuryakin.”  Waverly’s tone was crisp and no nonsense.  It was easy to forget that this elderly man was still a force to be reckoned with.   “No matter how we comport ourselves in this, THRUSH is going to be aware of our movements, if they are not alerted already.  I would prefer Mrs. Estabrook to be in your and Mr. Solo's capable hands than to entrust her to the care of less experienced agents.  Mrs. Estabrook is aware of all of this."

 

            "And she has confidence in you both."  Phidelia sat forward, making a punching gesture with her fists.  "We'll just have to take care of those twits as they come."  Her accent had switched from a refined Bostonian to cockney English.

 

            Waverly rose, offering his arm to the woman. "Would you care for a tour of our facilities while you are here?  I would be honored to escort you myself."

 

            "That would be delightful, Alexander."  She gathered herself up and stood, using the umbrella as an improvised cane, while Solo held her chair.  Illya also rose politely, his hands still upon the folder.

 

            Even after their superior had left, the men remained standing, staring after the pair. Finally, Illya spoke softly, "I could have sworn her accent was Bostonian and then she spouts a British accent that could rival any Southampton dock worker.  Where did Mr. Waverly say she was from again?"

 

            "Don't remember him saying the first time," Solo said. "Her eyes are disquieting.  They're almost as bad as yours, old friend.  I felt like she was looking right through me."

 

            "As long as we don't get into a stare down, we should be okay.  I’ll go and get the plane ready"

 

            "Great and stop off at the dentist on the way out.

 

            "Don't you ever give up beating a dead horse, Napoleon?"

 

            “Not if there’s a chance it might magically rise from the dead.”  

 

            

 

 

             Illya sat in the cockpit of the small Lear jet, making a final instrument check when Solo boarded with the old woman.  She had changed from her previous outfit, which hadn’t surprised him.  To his experience, women seemed to love 'travelling' outfits.  She was now wearing a matching three piece dress set, the color an explosion of purple. The phrase, ‘when I am old, I shall wear purple’ popped into his head, but he had no idea why.  She was still brandishing that bamboo bumbershoot ‑ now using it as a walking stick as she climbed the narrow stairs to the plane.

 

             He could hear his partner conversing with her, his voice courteous, though the exact words didn't penetrate the partition door separating him from the body of the small plane.  He checked the plane chronometer with his own watch and readjusted it so that they matched. One handed, he pulled off his tie and undid the top button of his shirt.  His jacket had already been discarded upon the nearby co pilot’s chair and his sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.  He liked to be reasonably comfortable when he flew.  His other hand reached for his headset and he slipped it on, adjust the mouthpiece to his liking.

 

            “This is W-K-5-1-9er, requesting permission to taxi.”  He flicked up a switch and glanced over his shoulder as Solo stuck his head into the cockpit.  "You two sure were a long time.  What happened?  Was there trouble?"

 

            "Mrs. Estabrook wanted to stop for a bite to eat."

 

            "Hmm," Illya checked his watch again.  "I didn't know the Four Seasons was open this early.  In that case, you made good time."  A voice sounded in his headset and he held up a finger to Solo to wait. “This is W-K-5-1-9er, roger that.”  He reached over Solo to switch on an engine.  “You were saying?”

 

            "It wasn't Four Seasons...or even One Season for that matter.  We ended up at a soup kitchen down on 4th."

 

            "A what?"  Illya’s attention had switched from that of his partner to the runway before him.  Beneath his hands, the jets rumbled to life, anxious to be set free.  He kept his speed controlled and his gaze constantly moving.  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust his instruments, but experience taught him not to solely rely upon them either. 

 

             "A soup kitchen. Surely you've heard of them."

 

            "Of course, I have, but do you even know where one is?"

 

             "I do now."  Solo's face was glum, and Illya couldn't help but smile as he slid the plane in the line of planes awaiting take off.   Two planes waited in front of him as another touched down, the strength of its engines causing the smaller Lear plane to rock gently.

 

            "Try to put the vision out of your strictly upper class mind, Napoleon.  You better get ready for takeoff.  Flight time is about 45 minutes, unless we stacked over Dulles. There’s a ten-minute weather delay now, but God only knows what it will be like when we get down there."  

 

            "I’ll make sure we're all tucked in back here.”  He patted man upon his shoulder and headed back to the body of the plane.  Illya was talking in the background, but Solo knew the conversation wasn’t directed to him.

 

            He slapped his hands together and approached their guest.  She was knitting, but her attention was elsewhere, everywhere, out the small window, about the cabin, never resting for more than a moment upon things before moving off to the next.  It reminded Solo of a hummingbird, flitting from one flower to the next.

 

            “Are you all ready for Washington D.C., Ma’am?” 

 

            “Oh, yes indeedy Mr. Solo.  This is rather exciting.  I’ve never flown in a private jet before.  Is Mr. Kuryakin feeling better?”

 

            “He’s fine,” Solo said, slipping into his seat and fastening the seat belt.  “He’d deny it, but between you and me, he could fly this thing in his sleep.  Now if there’s anything you need, you simply have to ask me.  We’ve got a fully stocked galley in here, which includes just about anything you’d care to eat or drink.”  Napoleon ear detected the increase in the engine pitch a second before the plane started to roll.  “Once we hit our cruising altitude of course.  Here we go.”

 

 

 

            

The man ran long, seemingly delicate fingers through his red hair and held the phone closer to his ear to block out the noise of the control room.    "Can you speak up a bit...are you sure...but who is she...listen, can you hang on for a minute?"  He dropped the phone to his lap, covering the mouthpiece firmly.  "If I don't have some quiet in approximately seven seconds, the lot of you will be pulling your next assignment on the Red Sea, from the bottom!"

 

            Even the tape drives grew quiet.  It was strictly coincidental, he knew, but it added a nice touch to the threat. "Thank you."  He returned to the telephone.  "Now, you were saying that UNCLE's golden boys have themselves a guest in their fancy UNCLE plane, but you have no idea who she is...oh, that's what I'm suppose to find out... without hurting her...that doesn't leave me a lot of room, you know. I'm sure your confidence is well‑founded, sir ‑ thank you."  Hans Dietrick cradled the phone and rocked slightly in his seat ‑ an indication that he was thinking and as well as a warning of woe to anyone who broke that train of thought.

 

            Dietrick was a creative man, or so he'd often been told, usually by his victims just before they died.  He was a very special agent in the THRUSH organization – that of an eliminator, specially trained to take care of bothersome problems permanently.  They were referred to as the Abstergo Caterva.  Although the thought of finally being unleashed upon UNCLE’s finest was exhilarating, the capturing and interrogating of a still living person was definitely not his forte.  Nor was the kidnapping of an old woman to serve her tea and crumpets.  This was definitely a whole new ball game and was going to require more finesse than his usual bag of tricks.

 

            He stood, stretching his 6' 4" frame to its limit, before walking over to his handful of specially selected men.  He'd personally hand picked and trained them:  efficiently, practically, and, he hoped, successfully.  They'd proved themselves worthy before, but this...this was a whole new ball game. It was Solo and Kuryakin this time.  However those two did it, they had a bad reputation of being very, very good at their jobs, which was exactly why Dietrick was both dreading and anticipating the assignment.  If he could rid THRUSH of two headaches at once, there would be no limits to his power within the organization.

 

            "Okay, people, may I have your undivided attention, please.  We are about to go big time..."

 

 

 

 

 

            Illya Kuryakin pulled off his sunglasses and rubbed his gritty-feeling eyes.  He felt like he hadn’t slept in a week and the pain reliever he’d taken a just little over 20 minutes ago was already showing signs of giving up the fight and surrendering to the throb in his jaw.   He took another sip of coffee and held it in his mouth, letting the warm liquid bathe the tooth.  It helped a little and he checked the various equipment and dials before swallowing. Satisfied that all was operating well within his parameters, he set the autopilot, he stood and stretched as much as the small cockpit would allow before toggling on the intercom system.

 

            “Napoleon, could you join me up front please.”

 

            A moment later, Solo was in the door way.  “Trouble?”

 

            “Need to stretch my legs a little, that’s all.  It’s on autopilot, just make sure none of those lights go red and you’ll be fine. I’ll be back in five.” He passed the headset over to Solo, picked up his cup and trudged into the back of the plane.  He nodded politely to their guest as he passed and slipped into the small space allocated for the galley on the craft.  There was a flip down seat and he sunk into it, closing his eyes against the exhaustion that the pain brought with it.

 

            "Trouble, dear?"  Illya sat up abruptly and looked directly into the vivid blue eyes of their guest.  Phidelia Estabrook bent over him, using the umbrella as a brace. The last thing he needed or wanted was more advice solicited or not, so instead, he smiled and shook his head.

 

            "It's nothing ‑ really."

 

            She reached out a gnarled hand and placed it on the junction between his neck and jaw.  As much as he disliked physical contact, Illya couldn't bring himself to be rude to her.  Then she abruptly squeezed and Illya stiffened, hissing at the pain.  The strength in that hand surprised him and he felt his eyes starting to roll upwards.  To avoid passing out, he pulled sharply away and his face went blank.  The tooth ache was gone ‑ completely.  "What did you do?"

 

            "Something an old Swahili witch doctor showed me." This time, her dialect was definitely African.  "It has to do with pressure points or so I’m told."  She patted his shoulder.  “Isn’t that better than taking more of those dreadful pills?  Now get some coffee and off you go now.”

 

 

 

 

            Hans Dietrick leaned over the shoulder of his right‑hand man, the pale grey light from the radar scope washing away what little color there was in the thin cheeks.

 

            "Are you sure it's them you're tracking, Hansen?"

 

             "Yes, sir, it's the only Lear jet in the area.  They are heading for Washington D.C.‑ the long way around.  Perhaps their guest wanted to see some of the countryside."

 

            "How do you know that they're heading for Washington D.C. then?"

 

            "Even UNCLE has to bow to the FAA.  I got the flight plan Kuryakin filed in New York."

 

            "Excellent."  Dietrick was pleased ‑ so far, so good.  He finger combed his head in to some semblance of order and blew out a mouthful of air.  He’d been on the case six hours now and hadn’t killed anyone, a personal first for him.

 

            "Shall we shoot them down?"

 

            "You're joking, of course."

 

            "But with Solo and Kuryakin, they'll be no end of trouble until they're dead.  I’ve heard the stories and read the reports.  Those two have more lives than a cat does, especially the Russian and Solo you can’t even hold long enough to kill.  Rumor has it that they can’t be killed."

 

            "Then we shall have to prove that wrong, won’t we.  Sadly, THRUSH Central was very specific on their orders. UNCLE's guest isn't to have one grey hair on her head ruffled.  After we get her, you guys can have the UNCLE agents and do whatever you want."

 

        "Great, I hear Dubois has a new truth serum that works on anything ‑ programmed UNCLE agents included.  There nothing I want more than to see Solo’s face when he realizes he’s spilled his guts to us.  And I have just the ‘thing’ for his partner.  I can’t wait to see how long it takes to make him scream…and how long I can keep it up."

 

        Dietrick smiled a toothy grin at the man. "Ah to be young again and full of dreams again, that would surely be a cursed blessing. I will leave you to your daydreaming then.  I'm off to dispatch a special welcoming committee.  Keep me informed if there is any deviation from their flight plan."

 

 

 

              Illya’s tooth was still behaving itself three hours later and he wondered if their guest had any more tricks up her sleeve.  They were currently wandered the corridors of the Smithsonian Institute's Natural History building.   He didn’t really need to be there at all, Solo was doing a marvelous job as a tour guide and perfectly able to supply answers to the woman’s non-stop questions.  Solo was delighting the old woman, making her giggle one moment and ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ the next.  Of all the talents his partner had, it was that particular one that Illya coveted the most – that ease Solo had with people; his seemingly inane ability to make them feel like they were the only ones in the world who mattered.  He stared at a display of gem stones, without really seeing them. There were days when he trade just about anything to be like that, to have that sort of comfort level around people. 

 

Phidelia was marveling at the Hope Diamond   “Isn’t that lovely and such a fun bit of nonsense to go along with it.  Do you believe in the curse, Mr. Solo?”

 

“I firmly believe in the power of suggestion,” he allowed, automatically searching the room for his partner and anything else that might require his attention.  “If you make someone believe in something long and strong enough, then anything is possible.”

 

“And what do you believe in, Mr. Solo?”

 

“That every man has a right to choose his own path, that no matter the odds, good will always triumphant in the end,” he paused and looked into those blue eyes.  “My partner, I believe in Illya.”  He stopped, not knowing where that had come from.  Thankfully, the Russian was apparently ignorant of his bald faced statement, still studying a case bearing the crown jewels of Nickolas the first.

 

“He will follow you to the ends of the earth, Mr. Solo, but you already know that.”  Phidelia tapped her cane upon the marbled floor.  “How diamonds are formed, do you know?

 

“Ah for that, we need our resident genius.  “Illya?”  Upon hearing his name, the Russian abandoned his display case and walked casually to his side.  “Mrs. Estabrook would like to know how diamonds are formed.”

 

“You need to have a region in which temperature is high enough, somewhere between 900ºC to 1400ºC and enough pressure, say between five to six GPa. Diamond formation under oceanic crust has to take place at greater depths due to lower surface temperatures. Therefore, diamond formation within the oceanic crust requires a higher pressure for formation and this in turn, allows diamond crystals to grow larger than under land masses.  This,” he nodded to the diamond on display.  “Was actually found on land, which makes its size something of an anomaly.”

 

“Where was it mined originally?”

 

“Kollur mine in Golconda, India. It was found in a kimberlite formation, which used the same tectonic pressure to create the Himalayas.”

 

“My word, you are a bright boy, aren’t you?”

 

 Illya ducked his head politely.  “You’re very kind, Ma’am.”  He turned from her to touch Napoleon’s elbow.  “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, Napoleon.”  He nodded towards the restrooms. 

 

“No problem, I suspect we’ll still be here when you get back.  You know how ladies are about their gems stones.”  He watched the agent move away and found himself reflecting back upon Estabrook’s statement.   It was sort of funny scary the way she’d made that claim, for he knew he did believe in his partner more than anything else in the world and wondered if her assertion of the Russian’s loyalty was equally true.  

            

            She had abandoned the rock and mineral display and was looking at a collection of animal fossils.   "Yes, dear, I know you’re bored, but just be patient. Good things come to those." she muttered softly and Napoleon hesitated, just the merest of moments before answering.  

 

            “Far from bored, Mrs. Estabrook.  I apologize if my manner conveyed such.”  The woman turned to him, a questioning look in her eyes and then she laughed.

 

            “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you, dear, just a friend here.” She tapped the display case.  “Where had Mr. Kuryakin disappeared to?  I have another question for him…that is, if he knows anything about the formation of Mesolithic fossils.  Does he?  Would he…where is he?”

 

            "He's...ah...using the facilities."  Solo smiled at her while he made a quick inspection of the immediate area.  The room has emptied out shortly after they arrived.

 

            There was a pause as if she was considering his words and then she nodded.  "Oh, you mean he went to the bathroom.  What a good idea!  Could you possibly direct me there?"

 

            "Of course.  Go through the Early Man exhibit, and they should be to the right, I believe.  You'll probably run into Illya coming out.”

 

            A wizened hand paused its worrying of the umbrella's rattan handle as Phidelia, her head still bobbing as if in agreement, wandered away.

 

 

            Solo meandered back into the deserted room himself after a lengthy wait.  He had anticipated that from the woman, considering his rather extensive experience with females, but Illya’s absence was beginning to worry him.  It’s wasn’t like the man to dawdle and Solo decided it was time for him to check for himself.

 

At least that was his thought until he spotted two men hovering in the shadows and then his mind switched gears to a more present danger.  He began an easy walk towards them and one of the man stepped out to block his path.

 

             "Going somewhere, UNCLE?" The man reached out and flipped Solo's lapel up.

 

            "Yes, as a matter of fact.  Excuse me, are we related? I don’t seem to recognize you.”  Solo patted his lapel back into place and balanced himself, ready to fight or flee, as appropriate.

 

            "Nice, but we know you, Solo."  The man's companion edged forward, one hand covered with an overcoat.  Just a bit of gun muzzle peeked out from beneath the material.  "And I got a gun here that could put a lovely hole in that fancy suit of yours.  Where's your guest?  More importantly, where’s that damned partner of yours?"

 

            "Behind you."

 

            “Like I’m going to fall for that one. C'mon, Solo, don't try to pull that old trick on us.”

 

 

 

             Illya Kuryakin tilted his head back and took several deep breaths, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head.  Ever since walking through the museum’s doors, he’d felt like someone was trying to sift through his brain.  It was better now, in the cool porcelain and steel of the restroom, but he couldn’t stay in here much longer without worrying his partner.

 

Abruptly, his eyes widened and a chill ran through him.  A premonition of danger made him lob his paper towel towards the trash receptacle as he drew his gun with the other.  He eased the door open and cautiously peered out. Nothing immediately struck him as odd in the narrow corridor that led back to the Early Man display room.

 

             ‘Great,’ he thought.  What he didn't need his imagination working overtime, along with everything else on this trip.  He straightened his tie and took three steps out of the hallway before ducking behind a display of a Homo erectus man.

 

            Not far away, Solo stood, facing two strange men. Just in the way they held themselves, Illya could see 'that' look about them ‑ and Solo appeared to be in no position to do much about it.  He watched as his partner smoothed down the lapel of his jacket. So far they only seemed intent only upon Solo, so Illya decided to go in for a closer look.  He moved silently until he was literally standing right behind them.

 

            "Where's that damned partner of yours?" the shorter of the two demanded, jabbing his coat-draped arm at Solo.

 

            "Behind you."  Solo's hazel eyes saw Illya, but didn’t react, thereby not alerting the two to his presence.

 

            " Like I’m going to fall for that one. C'mon, Solo, don't try to pull that old trick on us. "

 

             "Why not," Illya asked, conversationally.  "He's an old UNCLE agent."

 

            The two THRUSH agents spun and Solo grabbed the closest one, yanking him headfirst into the wall.  He crumbled without much protest and Napoleon turned, just in time to see Illya give the coup de grace to the remaining THRUSH.

 

            "So much for the reception party," Solo said, brushing his hands off.  "You feeling better now?"

 

            "As a matter of fact, a little adrenaline rush was just what I craved, but you didn't need to go to all this trouble.  For that, I thank you."

 

            "Next time I’ll just buy you an espresso." Napoleon contemplated the immediate area; thankfully the museum room was still strangely empty.  It struck him as odd considering how busy the rest of the museum was, but it was as if someone had purposefully closed off the room just for them.  It had been like this in every room that they had explored today, but he didn’t have time to ponder that when a more immediate problem begged his attention.  "So, what should we do with them?"

 

            "Ah..."  Illya glanced around and then pointed to a nearby exhibit.  "The cave, Mr. Solo.  I seriously doubt anyone will notice two more Neanderthals.  We can leave them in there and alert museum authorities. They can take it from there"

 

             "But won’t people notice?”  Solo regarded the suits on the unconscious men.  “That these two are dressed different?"

            

            "Not if we strip them.  Unless you look really closely, what's the difference?  A thug is a thug."

 

            Solo went to heft up the closest man, but paused as the man’s head lolled at an unnatural angle.  "Ah, Illya, I think you used too much dynamite here."

 

            Solo's tone was odd and Illya looked down at the THRUSH.  "He’s dead? I didn’t think I hit him that hard.”

 

            “Hard enough to snap his neck.”

 

“Sorry, I don’t know my own strength sometimes.”  

 

The Russian’s casual attitude was very much unlike the man and Solo found it oddly disturbing.  Usually the man eschewed taking life, doing so only when there wasn’t a choice offered and even then with great regret.

 

“Forget what I said earlier.  Next time, I’m buying you a decaff.”

 

            "We've got to do something with him.  I seriously doubt our guest would be pleased at having to share her plane with a THRUSH, dead or otherwise."

 

            "Let's go with our original plan.  He won't be in there longer than dead than alive."

 

            “There will be questions.”

 

            “There always are, providing they know of whom to ask them.  First, they must find me.”

 

        

 

            They had just put the finishing touches on the revamped display when Phidelia approached, her blue eyes full of mischief.

 

            "I'm sorry to have taken so long, gentlemen, but they had the most entertaining little vending machines in there."  She held up several pairs of magnetic Scottie terriers.  “They don’t seem to be working though.”  She dropped them into Illya’s outstretched hand.

 

            “They appear to be demagnetized.  How bizarre.”  He stowed them in his pants pocket.      "That's all right, Ma'am, we weren't bored."

 

             "I dare say you two know how to amuse each other." Phidelia said softly, patting the tip of her umbrella against the marble floor.  "Shall we go?  I hear there's an interesting display of weapons around here somewhere.”  She linked arms with Solo and patted his arm.    “That should be more to your liking than these stuffy old rocks."

 

 

 

 

  

 

            Illya sat back in the armchair and absently massaged his jaw, trying to concentrate on the local D.C. news broadcast.  The talking head’s mouth was moving, but his words just didn’t seem to be making it past the TV screen.  Not that the chair helped much,  It was his opinion that there had to be a company whose sole purpose in life was to manufacture the most uncomfortable furniture known to man and then sell it to hotels.  

 

Not far away, both Phidelia, now wearing a smart brilliant blue two-piece dress, and Napoleon sat on a small settee, both deeply engrossed in various sections of the Washington Post.

 

             "That's interesting, Hamas is on the move again and there's another coup in India, Illya."  Solo peered over the top of the newspaper at his lounging partner.  He’d never seen the Russian quite this listless while on assignment.

 

            His partner’s voice rousted him a bit and Illya again readjusted his position in the chair, trying to find at least one semi-comfortable pose.  "Maybe Kali's followers are campaigning for Zero Population Growth again.  You know how society conscious those boys are."

 

             "Sikhs, this time.  Hope Mr. Waverly has the India office on alert."

 

            "I'm sure he knows his job by now, Napoleon. Still, if you'd like to give him a call..."  Illya started to take out his communicator and smiled at Solo's grimace.

 

            “No, I think I’ll just let sleeping dogs lie for the moment.”

 

            "Do you know that, according to this Ripley fellow, the Great Wall of China is the only man‑made structure that's visible from space," Phidelia piped up, causing both agents to look at her, puzzled.  “Why, that’s a bit of nonsense.  It’s far too disconnected and thin to be seen from any distance in space.  Still, I wonder…”

             

            "Ma'am," Solo asked, even though he had a feeling at what was coming.

 

            "Do you think we could visit it?"

 

            "But we haven't even finished the Smithsonian, much less the rest of Washington," Illya protested.

 

            Solo's firm look silenced the Russian. "Who wants to see a bunch of dusty antiques when the wonders of China await us?" Solo smiled genially at the woman.  "Shall we leave tonight?"

 

            "And miss our pizza?  I should say not!"  Phidelia stood, using the umbrella as a cane.  "Besides, I think Mr. Kuryakin needs some rest if he’s going to fly that little plane tomorrow.  Can we leave tomorrow morning instead?"

 

             A knock interrupted her and both Solo and Kuryakin froze momentarily.  Both men went to the door, each standing off to one side of it.

 

            "I believe the pizza has arrived."  Cautiously, Solo peeked out through the peephole and then opened the door wide to permit the man to enter.  He patted his suit pockets and threw a desperate look at Illya as he handed the cartons to Illya, who immediately scowled.

 

             Illya sighed loudly, juggling the pizzas one handed as he pulled out his wallet and tossed it to Solo. "Give the man what he needs, Napoleon."  

 

             Solo frowned back, his eyes questioning, dubious at Illya's coded suggestion that he plant a listening device upon the man, but he refused to second guess his partner's intuition.  Kuryakin’s hunches often paid off. He pulled out three bills and some change, making sure one of the coins was an UNCLE tracking device.

 

            This accomplished, he sent the delivery man on his way and turned back to Kuryakin.  "What was that all about?" he demanded as Illya carried the boxes to the table and set them down.

 

            "There are three pizzas here, Napoleon."

 

            "That's how many we ordered."

 

             "No, remember I called them back and cancelled one because of my tooth.  Now, either they decided to send us the third one anyhow, and I refuse to believe that a pizza company would be quite that generous, or THRUSH wants to add to our dining pleasure."

 

            Solo put a protective hand on Estabrooks's shoulder and gently moved her to the furthest point away from the pizzas that the room offered.  "Perhaps it would be wise if you wait in your room, Mrs. Estabrook."

 

            "Just when we're about to have some fun?  Absolutely not!  Which one do you think, Mr. Kuryakin?"  She did take up a cautionary position behind the dark-haired agent however.

 

             "Well, as I recall, we got one pizza with anchovies and olives and the other with pepperoni, mushrooms and extra cheese.  Here, we have the pep, mush, x‑che."  Illya removed the abbreviation‑scrawled box from the stack, setting it on the small table.  He lowered himself to its level and cracked the package open slightly and then tossed back the lid.  "Your extra cheese, Mr. Solo, all stuck to the top, like usual.  Some things never change."

 

            He repeated the process with the "anchov, ol" marked box and gingerly picked up the last remaining pizza.

 

             "What are you going to do with that?"  Phidelia remained behind Solo, but just barely.  She kept peeking out from around him.

 

            "Oh, I don't think we tipped our delivery boy enough."  Illya pulled out his communicator and twisted it open.  "I may be awhile, Napoleon, but I got a fairly strong signal here.  He’s not far off.  Keep my pizza warm."

 

 

 

 

 

            "And you're sure Castelton's dead?"  Hans Dietrick paced, anger at his men's failures adding fuel to his fiery temper.  He slammed a hand against a table and his underling jumped at the noise.

 

            "Yes, sir, they took him out on a stretcher with a blanket over his head.  From what our local agent was able to find out, his neck was snapped.  Says it looked like Kuryakin’s style, but he wasn’t 100%.”

 

            “And I just got a report that said they found Houston floating in the Reflecting Pool in front of the Washington Monument."  Dietrick flopped into a chair and began to drum long fingers on the desk top.  "Now I know why these two were chosen.  They're clever."

 

            "They're lucky," the agent disagreed, his voice calm and even.  “It’s that Solo luck thing, that’s all.  We’ll get them next time.”

 

            Dietrick spun on the man and grabbed him by the collar "That's where you're wrong, my friend, and that's why you'll never succeed with this mission.  If you believe that mere luck is all they have, they'll kick your teeth in every time.  Now, get your worthless hide out of here before I do that myself."  He released the handful of shirt front and allowed the man to half scurry, half crawl from the room.  Dietrick knew the man would be eager to lick his own wounded pride in front of sympathetic co‑workers.  It was also clear that something more was going to be needed, but what?

 

            An on/off chime interrupted his thoughts and he punched the intercom on with more force than was necessary.  "What is it now?"

 

            "Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I have a report that the UNCLE Lear is being fueled up again and a flight plan has been filed for China."

 

            "China?  Doesn't that little old broad ever slow down? Get me a copy of the route they'll take and then tell Murdock and Crane that I have a little job for them."

 

 

 

 

 

 

            Illya Kuryakin stared at the controls of the Lear, trying to keep his mind off the dull throb that plagued the right side of his face all the way up to his eye.  To attempt to raid the fist aid kit would just start up another bout with Napoleon, especially since Solo knew the Russian had emptied half a bottle into his pant’s pocket.  What he didn’t know is that the blond had been eating them like candy.  

 

Illya knew he should really go to the dentist.  He knew that wouldn't be like the time back in London when he was a grad student, but the memory of that particular bout of agony, the resulting infection and the less than pleasant stay at the hospital were all still as fresh in his mind as if it had just occurred yesterday.  It was lucky that he had good teeth and hadn't had to bother with them again until now.

 

            "Hey, Illya?"  Solo spoke casually, but the Russian was startled all the same.  "Sorry, I didn't know you were so jumpy."  He placed a calming hand on the man’s shoulder.  It was concerning that Illya hadn’t even heard him enter the small cockpit.

 

            "Lost in thought.  What's up?"

 

            "Thought you might like to take five and get some sleep.  I can handle it up here for awhile and I’ll wake you if anything comes up I can’t handle.  Otherwise, you can take over at 1400 – that should be about the time we approach LAX."

 

            "Thanks, Napoleon, I'm beat."  He’d never admit that to anyone but Solo.  The man was so familiar with him and his moods that to lie would be a disservice to them both.

 

            "You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?”  The statement was calmly delivered. At the reluctant head shake, Napoleon shook his own head slowly.

 

            "I know, I know, I should go see a dentist."  Illya rose and suppressed the urge to cup his cheek.  "Soon, Napoleon, I promise, just as soon as we’re back in New York." 

 

 

 

 

It wasn't like the Russian to forget to relieve him, Solo thought as he checked his wrist watch.  Still there wasn’t anything really pressing in the cockpit…unless you counted the blip that had appeared upon the radar screen.

 

“What the hell?  Where did you come from?  More importantly, when.”  He toggle don the wing cameras, but they revealed nothing but blue sky.  Whatever it was still wasn’t within visual.  Immediately, Solo came to a decision.  He could handle the plane well enough and even land it if push came to shove, but there was no way he would be able to outwit someone in a dog fight.  He needed a blond Russian for that.

 

He pushed open the cockpit door and rapidly walked to the still-sleeping Russian.  

 

        "Must you wake him, Mr. Solo?"  Phidelia asked, looking up from her knitting. "He's sleeping so well."  She reached out to caress the side of his face, but Napoleon stepped forward, catching up her hand.

 

            “Ma’am, forgive me, but you mustn’t touch an agent when he’s asleep. It’s the way we’ve been trained. He could hurt you without meaning to.”

 

            Gently, Phidelia extracted her hand from Solo’s and stoked the Russian’s face.  “You mean his little ragamuffin, Mr. Solo?  Why, he’s as gentle as a lamb.”  Illya frowned, as if struggling with something and his breathing caught for a minute, but he continued to sleep.  Phidelia sat back and smiled triumphantly at Solo.

 

            Napoleon decided to opt out of tempting fate and instead said firmly, “Illya, I need you now.”  There was a total lack of response from the man and Solo frowned.  He’d never know Illya not to respond to that particular phrase with anything less that total wakefulness. “I’ve never seen this before,” Napoleon said, worry growing in the pit of his stomach.  The man’s face was flush and sweat beaded upon his brow as if he was running a fever.  Every minute or so, he twitched as if struggling with some sort of inner demon.

 

Concerned, he placed a cautious hand on Kuryakin's arm, shaking it gently.  "Illya, wake up."  After a minute, he tried again.  "Illya?  Illya, are you in there?"  Finally, he reached up to first pat and then to slap a flushed cheek.  "Hello, party, are you there?"

 

            "Ow…" Illya mumbled, slowly opening his eyes, but still without moving a muscle.  "We can’t be there yet.  Where are we?"

 

            "Sorry, I forgot that was the bad side.  We’re just about cross from Utah into Arizona, but we have a problem."

 

             Illya stood and staggered a step, smiling sheepishly as Solo caught an elbow to steady him.  “I guess I’m still not quite awake yet.  What  problem?"

 

            "Company’s coming."

 

That should have brought instant awareness from the Russian, but instead he blinked several times and shook his head as if trying to clear cobwebs from it.  "You can let go, Napoleon."   Solo dropped his hand and Illya walked slowly to the cockpit.

 

            “The poor young man has certainly seen his share of adventures,” Phidelia’s voice broke through Solo’s thoughts.  “As I’m sure you have, Mr. Solo.”

 

Napoleon studied her for a moment, confused by her observation, as she returned to her knitting.  “Please make sure your seatbelt is fastened, Ma’am.  It might be bumpy.”

 

            

 

            Illya had slid into the pilot's seat, making a cursory check of the dials as he pulled on the head set and barely hid a yawn.  

 

            "Illya, are you sure you're okay to do this?"  Solo took the co‑pilot's position and passed Illya a lukewarm cup of coffee.  He’d poured it half an hour ago and promptly forgot about it.  From what it looked like, the blond needed it more than he did.

 

            "Sorry, Napoleon, you’re not qualified.  If you banged this up, I’d never hear the end of it from the Old Man."  Illya wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead.  "I must have gone through every assignment we've had in the last few years, even a few I'd forgotten all about.  It's amazing what you can remember subconsciously."  He reached for the headphones and adjusted them.  “Do we have a visual?"

 

            “Didn’t a minute ago, but let’s see about now.”

 

            Illya flicked a switch and turned his attention to a small monitor, sighing at the sight of a dark plane against the deep blue sky.  "Well, it's black."

 

            "It must be the bad guys then."  Napoleon said, lightly and then he continued with a western drawl. "Shall we head them off at the pass, pardner?"

 

            "I love it when you talk Early American.  It makes you so groundy."

 

            "Groundy?"   Familiar as he was with Illya's variations on slang, Solo had trouble with that one.  Then the handsome features grimaced and he shook his head. "Earthy, Illya, you mean earthy."

 

            "Whatever.  Why don't you go see if our guest and her umbrella are safely tucked in before I start any fancy maneuvers?"  Illya drained the coffee cup and then handed it back to Solo.

 

            "You need help here?"

 

            "No, the only thing I need right now is inspiration." Illya checked the map and then tapped it with a forefinger.  "Ahh, this might just do it."  

 

            He increased the plane’s speed and banked hard, heading for Nevada air space and directly for a spot where the map was blank, except for the words "Area 51 ‑ Top Secret".  Any violation of air space here would have the military on his tail in a matter of minutes which was preferable to what was there now.  Illya hoped he had clearance that the military would accept. He doubted THRUSH would be as fortunate.

 

            "Okay, Nevada Air Guard, let's see how efficient you are."  He flew in low, much closer than a normal jet could and faster than any would dare.  With any luck, the ground people would consider him a threat and take the appropriate measures.  He glanced over at his radar screen.  The THRUSH plane was just about to cross over the boundary behind him.

 

            Abruptly, his radio crackled to life and he reached for the microphone.

 

            "Unidentified aircraft, this is Red Robin 59er, you have violated government‑restricted air space.  Identify yourself and state your purpose."

 

            "Red Robin, this is W-K-5-1-9er, repeat, W-K-5-1-9er.  We have an emergency and require aid.”

 

            There was silence over the radio as the ground tower checked his call letters, and then the voice came back.  “State your emergency W-K-5 1-9er.”

 

            “We’ve got a hostile boogey on our tail and a VIP on board.  Can you assist?”

 

            "That's an affirmative, W-K-5-1 9er.  We copy your boogey.  We'll take care of him for you."

 

            "Appreciate the help.  W-K-5-1 9er.  Out."

 

            Illya listened for a moment, but it was obvious that the THRUSH plane was using a different frequency.  Shrugging his shoulders, he brought the plane up hard and banked, veering sharply to the right, away from the heart of the base and towards the nearest border of Area 51.  Still curious, he flipped his wing cameras back on and found the THRUSH aircraft. They fired only once upon an Air Force plane that Illya could surmise was his benefactor.   That, however, was once too often for the military craft. Efficiently, it knocked a wing off the THRUSH plane, which began a smoky descent to the bright yellow Nevada desert.

 

            "Illya, how's it going?" Napoleon shouted.  "We're still waiting for the fireworks."

 

            "Then you'll have to wait for the 4th of July.  The problem's been eliminated."

 

            "Already?" came Phidelia’s questioning chirp.  "And I was so hoping for some tail spins and loop‑the‑loops and an earth-shattering kabang." 

 

“Sorry to disappoint.”  Kuryakin chuckled as Solo came forward.

 

            "So, how did you become so efficient?"  He climbed into the co‑pilot's seat and scanned the immediate horizon.

 

             "I called in some of Nevada's finest by flying over a top‑secret government installation that isn’t there.  They forgave us, but the THRUSH made the mistake of firing on them.  The Air Force wasn't charmed by their lack of regard."

 

            "Smart Russian."

 

            "Smart UNCLE agent," Illya corrected.  “Now let’s hope the gods are with us as we are going to be coasting into LAX on fumes.”

 

 

 

            “They what?”  Hans Dietrick listened for a moment and then hurled his clipboard across the room.  A book and then a stack of file folders follow it.  “I can’t believe this!  Find them and kill them.  I don’t care what it takes and what you have to do to accomplish it – I want Kuryakin’s head on a platter.”

 

            He slammed the microphone down, cracking its casing as he did.  Suddenly he became aware that the men in the room had discreetly moved to the farthest reaches of the room to avoid his wrath.

 

            “You,” he pointed to one of the men randomly.  “Clean this up.”  He gestured to the pile of paper scattered over the floor.  “You,” he pointed to another.  “I want special access through channels and everything you can scrape together on these two UNCLE agents.  I don’t care how small or insignificant it might seem.  I want it NOW!  The rest of you, get out of my sight.”

 

            His men scurried away, bent upon their assigned tasks, all eager to be away from the THRUSH operative.  He toggled on a button and the screen upon the far wall came to life.  It displayed a split screen, Solo on the right, Kuryakin on the left.  Dietrick studied it hard, memorizing every angle, every shadow of their faces.  “You are mine,” he growled.

 

 

 

 

 

        Illya Kuryakin bolted straight up in bed, a hand clasped against his cheek, head bowed against the pain.  He breathed deeply, trying unsuccessfully to fight it.  He’d been beaten, shot, stabbed, dragged behind a car, left for dead more time than he could remember and none of that pain came close to this.  The small lamp between their beds came on and he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

 

        "Illya," Solo's voice was soft.  "Can I get you anything?"

 

        The answer was long in coming, and Solo was beginning to wonder whether the Russian had heard him or not when he finally heard the murmured, "Yes, a dentist."

 

            “Glad you’re finally starting to see things my way.”  Napoleon patted him on the shoulder and pulled to his communicator. “Overseas rely please, Beijing office, please.”  He kept his tone even, free of any ‘I told you so’ attitude than might make the Russian dig his heels in.

 

            “Beijing, Napoleon Solo, is that you?”

 

            “Grace, my pet, you are sounding more lovely every day.”  A half-stifled moan brought his attention back around.  “Listen, is Jackie there?”

 

            “Sure, just a minute.”

 

            “Solo, you dog, what are you doing in Beijing and why didn’t you call earlier?”

 

            “Long story, Jackie, we just got in a couple of hours ago.  Listen, right now, I need a favor, a dentist, a good one.”

 

            “Okay, can-do roger dodger.  I’ll meet you down front in ten minutes.”

 

            “It’s not me, it’s Illya.”

 

            “I finally get to meet that reticent partner of yours?  How will I know him?”

 

            “Believe me, you’ll know him.  He’ll be the one in severe pain.”

 

            Napoleon rose and walked to Illya’s suitcase.  He pulled out pants and a turtleneck and tossed them over to the Russian as he struggled free of his bedclothes.  “It won’t be that bad, Illya and you’ll certainly be in less pain afterwards than you are now.  Trust me.”

 

            “The last time I trusted you, I ended up in Intensive Care.  Of course, the last time I went to the dentist, I ended up in the same place.  Six of one half a dozen of the other.”

 

            “Well, trust me more this time.”

 

 

 

            Napoleon gave up trying to concentrate upon an English translation of the morning paper and dropped it upon the small table. Dawn had broken and not long thereafter, Mrs. Estabrook had come knocking upon their door, dressed and ready to take on the wonder of Beijing.  It had taken just a moment for her to ascertain what the problem was and immediately she sat down and called room service.  

 

 ‘How long did it take to get a tooth filled,’ Napoleon wondered.  It had been years since he’d had a cavity.  Perhaps Illya needed a root canal since the problem hadn't been taken care of sooner.  It would serve him right.  

 

            "I should have gone with him," Solo said, without realizing he’d spoken.  "With all the THRUSH running around, he could have come up against some of them and he wasn’t exactly in his fight best."

 

            "Mr. Kuryakin's better off doing this himself.  Every man should learn to face his fear alone and then fewer things frighten him."

 

              Solo opened his mouth and then closed it, unsure of how to counter that.  Instead, he went to the room service cart and began to poke through the various covered trays, finally finding the bacon and eggs he’d requested and he sat down to address the dish.  

 

            “It was nice that you ordered that soup for your partner.”

 

            “His favorite – he’s a hot and sour fiend, no matter the meal.”  A knock at the door interrupted him and he rose to stand to one side of it, gun drawn. "Yes?"

 

             "Napoleon, let me in, please.”  Illya’s voice filtered through the door.  “I forgot my key."

 

             Solo, though anxious to find out how his partner was, was still cautious enough to ascertain that Illya was alone and was indeed who he claimed to be.  The Russian pushed past him, obviously annoyed at Solo's precaution.  He had his communicator in hand and clicked it open.  

 

            “I’m in, Jackie and I’ll be sure to mention your concern to Napoleon.  Kuryakin out.”

 

            “Trouble?”

 

            “Jackie thinks we picked up a tail coming back.  That’s what took us so long; he wanted to be sure before heading home.”

 

            "How did you make out?"

 

            "As good as can be expected, considering the country and its standard of dental care.  Good morning, ma'am."  He nodded politely to Phidelia before sitting and pouring himself a cup of tea.

 

            "Maybe you should wait for the anesthesia to wear off."

 

            "Oh, the dentist Jackie picked doesn't use locals. Apparently, dentists here consider them barbaric and prefer to rely upon more true and tired methods."  Illya held up a hand that bore a tiny red pinpricks.  "Acupuncture."

 

            "How fascinating."  Phidelia took his hand and held it close to a vivid blue eye running her finger over the back of his hand again to stretch the skin. ”How very, very interesting.”  

 

            Illya permitted the examination to go on for a few seconds more before extracting his hand from her grasp.  He took a careful sip of the hot fluid, then took a mouthful and swallowed it gratefully.  "What's on the agenda for today?"

 

            “Wouldn’t you like a little nap first, dear?’ Phidelia asked, pushing the soup bowl closer to him “You’ve been up most of the night.”

 

            “Not necessary,” Illya said, sampling the soup.  He nodded his approval and began to eat.  

 

            Well, then, the Great Wall, of course," Phidelia answered, while Solo was still grappling with the thought of dental acupuncture.  “I want to walk the entire length.”

 

“Sadly, that is impossible, Ma’am,” Illya said.  “It’s over 4000 miles long and not all of it is traversable."

 

            "We can walk part of it though, can’t we?"

 

            "Of course, the Badaling entrance is only about 45 minutes out of the city."  Solo said, slapping his hands together.  "I’ll call HQ and arrange transportation.  And I'm sure you'll find Mr. Kuryakin a wealth of information on the topic, right Illya?"

 

 

 

            Napoleon Solo walked up into the area just before the staircase that led to the Great Wall.  From the top, there was an option of going left or right – right was the easier of the two, its incline much more gradual.  The left was steeper, but less populated.  He pushed past the various vendors hawking their wares and climbed the steps, heading automatically to the left, knowing that, if left to his partner, he would move her into the direction of fewest dangers.  

 

            There he stopped and glanced around.  It wasn’t hard to pick out their guest.  Her vivid green two-piece traveling suit dress easy to spot.  He didn’t know how she managed to get so much into her one suitcase, but manage she did.  It was harder to pick out his partner, but only just.  Being a blond in a country of dark haired individuals would have helped quite a bit, but the man was now wearing a baseball cap, obviously not of his own choosing since he didn’t have one on when Solo dropped them off.  Finally, Solo spotted them, more from his familiarity of how Illya carried himself than anything else.  They were halfway up the walkway, not far from a small stone structure.  The Russian was keeping one hand near his belt buckle, just in case he had to make a grab for his gun.  Phidelia kept pointing her bumbershoot first in one direction and then another, apparently asking unheard questions that kept his partner busy answering.

 

            “It was actually Emperor Qunshi Huangdi, who ruled from about 220 to210 B.C., who gets most of the credit for making this the massive structure it is today,” Illya was saying as Solo joined them.  He nodded to the man, but kept his attention wandering, constantly scanning the crowd.

 

            “I see and was it any good as a means of defense?”  Phidelia stood on tip toes to look over the wall.  “Isn’t that view magnificent?  It’s like you can see to the ends of the world.

 

            “It failed miserably.  The Jurchen, Mongols and Qing, three tribes that the wall was particularly built to repel, all breached the wall at one time or another.”   As the woman continued to scan the horizon, the Russian moved closer to his partner, murmuring.  “Napoleon, it looks as if we've may have company."

 

            "Oh?"  Solo glanced around at the other milling tourists.  "Lots of it, from the looks of it.  Anything more specific?"

 

            "They've been with us since we left the hotel this morning.  I remember seeing them on my way in, too.  They were trying to park the wrong way around on a one‑way street. Obviously, they don't read Chinese.  You're looking for a tall blond who’s made rather interesting fashion choice and a dark-haired gorilla in a tan body builder's shirt.

 

            Solo picked over the crowd again, this time his eye easily finding the men Illya described.

 

            "Yellow tie with a red shirt?  The man's got your fashion sense, Illya."

 

            "Thanks loads.  Do you recognize them of them?"

 

            "No, do you?"  Solo returned his attention to their silvered‑hair charge.

 

            "I think shorter one tried to run me over about a year ago, but I'm not sure.  The car was moving pretty fast at the time.  From what I recall reading not too long ago, he’d been tapped by some elite assassin squad inside THRUSH.  Abstergo Caterva, literally meaning to wipe out troops.  Not very imaginative, but to the point."

 

             "Is there something wrong, you two?  You don’t seem to be enjoying the sights."  Phidelia approached them, her expression, as always, interested and alert.  "You're not worrying about those two awful men who've been following us, are you?"

 

            Illya sighed, at a lost for words, and exchanged an 'I give up' expression with his partner.

 

            "Don't let them bother you.  They don't look like much of a challenge to me and my bumbershoot, much less you with your wits and fancy guns.  I shan't allow them to interrupt our outing."

 

            "I don't think your authority will have much effect on them, ma'am," Solo disagreed politely.  “Perhaps it is time to appreciate that view from a little more cover.”  He gestured her to the small stone structure built across the walkway of the wall.  

 

            "I wouldn't be so sure about that, Mr. Solo." Phidelia grinned widely at him and returned to her explorations.

 

            “While you remove her to the safety of that armament, I shall defuse the problem."  Illya leaned against the wall and pushed up his sunglasses with the tip of a thumb, watching the men without being obvious about it.

 

             "There may not be one.  They haven't made any threatening moves yet."

 

            The 'pop' of a silenced gun, barely audible over the wind and the buzz of conversation sent both Illya and Solo to the deck, Napoleon grabbing Phidelia on the way down and shielding her.

 

            "I think that would constitute a threatening move."  Illya rolled and reached for his gun.

 

            "A threatening move," Solo confirmed.  "The attack, however, seems aimed at us and not Mrs. Estabrook."

 

             "If I’m right about the assassin angle, they are probably here to remove us from the picture and then take her for a question and answer period.”    Around them, tourists screamed and scattered for cover. "I’ll hold them off."  

 

            Solo grabbed the old woman and sprang up, propelling her into the room, while Illya took a shot at the THRUSH, drawing their fire.  A cloud of rock dust coughed up in his face, attesting to his foe's accurate aim.  After one quick glance to assure himself of Solo's safety, Illya sprinted to join him, a flurry of bullets bringing up the rear. Solo pulled him into a corner of the minimal shelter.

 

            "This is another fine mess you've gotten me into, Mr. Solo," Illya muttered.  "Talk about a Mexican stand‑off.  I have two clips.  You?

 

“The same.  We’ve got to get her out of here, but the only way is right through them."  It was amazing how quickly the wall had managed to empty.  Now it was just the two THRUSH and them on this side of the wall.

 

            The two THRUSH agents charged, and then tripped, abruptly, as if over a log.  While the footing along the all was rough, it wasn’t particularly bad. Shaken, but still determined, they started to rise, but immediately went back down as if they'd been struck across the back.  They tried again and again were mysteriously felled.  It was only when they started showing signs of surrender that they were allowed to rise.  Immediately, Chinese police surrounded them.

 

            "Did you see that?"

 

            "No," Illya blinked in surprise.  "Did you?"

 

            "Of course not."  Chinese police were running up the stairs, weapons drawn, shouting unintelligible phrases at them.

 

            “Our friends would like us to put our weapons down or they are going to shoot us,” Illya translated.

 

            “I sort of figured that part out.”  Napoleon set his gun upon the stone walkway and raised his hands.  Illya followed suit.  “This should be quite unpleasant.  Chinese police are not known for their sense of humor.”

 

 

            

            The tension that coiled itself in Illya’s stomach didn’t start to relax until their wheels actually left the tarmac of the Beijing airport.  Bringing a weapon into the country was, in itself, punishable by death, so to have gotten off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist was unusual in itself.  But then to have an official apology issued to their guest was even more confusing.  In fact, the Chinese government couldn’t have been more accommodating to Mrs. Estabrook and had even given them special clearance to fly the private jet from Beijing to Xian.  In the back of his mind, he knew that they would probably be followed now by the Chinese secret police, but that was fine with him.   When THRUSH was involved, more protection was always a positive option.

 

            “Are we away?”

 

            “Thankfully, although I kept expecting to get shot down any minute now.”  The Russian’s fingers danced over his instrument panel as one hand held the place steady.  “What made her decide upon Xian, do we know?”

 

            “Not a clue.  She came out of the inspector’s office and asked if we could stop there over night before heading to Egypt.”  

 

            “Well, I’m not going to complain, I’ve wanted to see the terra cotta figures for a long time.  I just could never wrangle the time while I was here officially and the clearance to do it when I wasn’t on assignment.  This should only take about an hour and I’ve arranged to have a pick up at the airport directly to the warriors.”

 

            “Do we know who?”

 

            “Jackie came out ahead of us as soon as I heard.  Since he’s known to both of us, we won’t have to worry about interference.”

 

            “So this is where you two are always hiding.”  Phidelia voice interrupted him and both agents turned to see the elderly woman standing there, using her umbrella as a third leg to steady herself.  “The view is very different up here.”

 

            “Would you like to sit down?”

 

            “Can I?”  Even before the woman could approach the chair to sit, Illya discreetly toggle on the locking mechanism for the co-pilot controls.  It wasn’t about to be brought down by a misplaced hand, or worse, umbrella.  “And all these buttons and dials mean something?”

 

            “Yes, ma’am,” Illya glanced over at her and smiled slightly, then returned his attention to the airspace around them.

 

            Solo left the two chatting and went back into the lounge area of the plane.  He pulled out his communicator and twisted it on.  “Open Channel D, please.”

 

            “Ah, Mr. Solo,” Waverly answered without preamble.  “How is our guest enjoying her time out and about?”

 

            “Well enough, I suppose sir, we are headed towards Xian at the moment n our way to Egypt.  You received my latest report?”

 

            “Yes, I did, Mr. Solo and you need to be particular wary from this point onward.  If THRUSH has indeed decided to call out the Abstergo Caterva to dispatch with you and your partner, then we need to remain doubly vigilant.”

 

            “I agree, sir.    

      

 

            Dietrick ran his fingers through his red hair and sighed, long and exasperated.  He was frustrated ‑ not a feeling he was used to.  Still, he preferred it to the battered condition of the two men who lay in front of him covered with cacophony of purple, red and near black bruises.

 

            "And you say the UNCLE agents didn't even come near you?"

 

            "Yes, sir," one bed‑ridden man admitted, his voice slurred from heavy pain killers.  "They took off and hid in one of those house‑like things with the old woman.  When we started to advance, we got tripped up.  After that, every time we tried to get up ‑ bang!  Next thing we know, there are cops all over us.  Course, they arrested the UNCLE agents too.

 

            "And released them within the hour. Those two UNCLEs are starting to annoy me." Dietrick began to drum his fingers against one knee.  "I thought Washington was just a fluke, a mistake.  Now, after that incident with the Air Force and this, I'm not so certain."

 

        "Now you know why THRUSH so desperately wants them out of the picture.” A voice from behind Dietrick, made him spin, weapon drawn.  He lowered it at the sight of his THRUSH superior.

 

            "Admiral Mele Kai."  Dietrick's expression was not pleased.  All he didn't need now, on top of two elusive UNCLE agents, was interference by his inferior superior.

 

            "Yes, Dietrick and I'm expecting an answer to why Solo and Kuryakin are still alive.  When you were chosen for this task, we were assured that it would be simply a matter of hours before hearing of their demise.  Instead, they wander about the world, apparently without incident.”

 

            "I don't know, sir."  Dietrick knew better than to beat around the bush with the man.  “It defies everything that I’ve run up against to date.  These two didn’t even get close to them.”

 

            “And yet, here they lie, taking up precious resources and delaying us even further. What do you propose to do about it?"

 

            Dietrick looked down at his bed‑ridden confederate and thought briefly of the other three men who had met their fate already on the assignment.  He sighed again.

 

            "I'll take care of it myself, Admiral."

 

            "Excellent decision.   Go and relieve them of their cargo...and, Dietrick, no mix‑ups this time or you'll be drilling holes in the Antarctic."

 

 

            

 

            Illya Kuryakin swayed back and forth on the camel, his body moving in uneasy rhythm with the animal's plodding. “Now I know why they call these things the ships of the desert," he mumbled to no one in particular.  "I'm getting seasick."

 

            "Heads up, Illya," Solo grinned at the blond agent. "At least you’re conscious on this one and not leaving a blood trail behind you.  Besides, we're almost to the Temple of Isis."  He settled back on his own camel and started to hum the theme to "Lawrence of Arabia".

 

             "Spare me."  Illya kept his voice low, audible only to his partner and not to the robe‑draped Phidelia.  She rode ahead of them, using her umbrella as an improvised camel prod. ”Why we couldn’t just take an organized tour is beyond me.”

 

            "Isn't this wonderful," she chirped at them, her voice now carrying a distinct Arabic lilt.  Her burnoose was bright blue, a gift from a Bedouin trader at the airport.  

 

            Illya's discomfort egged Solo into an even better humor.  "Yes, isn't it just, but I don’t think Mr. Kuryakin would agree with us."

 

            "Aren't you enjoying this, Mr. Kuryakin?"  Phidelia twisted around in her saddle to study him with concern.

 

            "I'm afraid Illya doesn’t have much affection for the Sahara, having had some rather bad experiences here in previous visits, Ma'am," Solo answered.  

 

            Oh yes, I remember now…”  Her voice trailed off as the UNCLE agents exchanged confused looks.  As far as Solo knew, those files were still sealed.

 

            "I'm fine, Ma'am,"   Illya assured her and wiped a trickle of sweat from his face.

 

            "That's the spirit!" Phidelia grinned at him through a wreath of fabric.  "Forward to Kharga.” 

 

        

 

 

 

            They walked through the darkened corridor of the Temple of Isis, the flashlights they carried fighting an ineffective battle with the blackness.

 

            Phidelia swung her beam to a wall, studying the carved figures there.  "Do either of you gentlemen read hieroglyphics?"

 

            Solo kept his light trained on the floor, wary of any loose rocks.  "It’s been awhile.  How about you, Illya?  You’re better at it than I am."

 

             Illya squinted at the illuminated area.  “The figures here represent Isis and Horus or Hathor, depending upon which school of thought you prescribe to, and they are mother and son or mother and daughter.  This is their temple.  Isis was one of the most important goddesses of the Egyptians and was considered a great magician.  Horus was a powerful warrior and defended his father against Set.”  Illya trailed his fingers over the images, his mind working at the meaning.

 

            “oaky, I’m paraphrasing like crazy, but it reads something like, O powerful Isis, goddess of love, keeper of all time, mother of all children, May the sand of time be turned that I may see that I may live in worlds before and beyond, Show unto me that which I should see, great Isis.  Grant peace of mind so that I may hear the still voice of the Gods and so do the will of the Divine.  Reveal to me that which is true for me to know and steer me gently toward the,” Illya trailed off as the beam caught a human face, the light making the pale features even pastier, the red hair orange.  "Thrush."

 

            "Very good, Mr. Kuryakin."  The voice of Hans Dietrick filled the narrow corridor.

 

             Reflexes cut in and the UNCLE agents went for their guns.  But neither weapon cleared its holster as they both slowly crumpled to the sandy floor, victims of THRUSH sleep darts.

 

            Phidelia, shocked into stillness for the moment, took a step towards Dietrick, but found her arms pinned by the same pair of men who had downed Solo and Kuryakin.

 

            "Tut, tut, Ma'am, we don't need any of your help and they certainly don't.  Take her back to the jeep and sit with her," he ordered and then added, softly.  "And, guys, do be gentle with her.  Admiral Mele Kai wouldn't want her bruised."

 

            They led the sputtering woman away and Dietrick knelt down beside the unconscious men.  "Now, what shall I do with you?"

 

 

 

            Illya Kuryakin tried unsuccessfully to shift from his cramped position. Something was preventing him from moving his shoulders and arms.  Groggily, he made another attempt and then heard Solo's voice nearby.

 

            "Relax, old man, we're not going anywhere and it really would be less painful for me if you didn’t struggle too much."

 

Kuryakin opened his eyes, and was not shocked to find his surroundings as dark as they had been with them shut.  He closed them again and focused upon the physical.  He could feel the warmth of his partner’s skin against his own. They were apparently bound, back to back, at their upper arms and wrists.  "Is it safe to assume that we are gotten?"

 

            "I'm afraid so."

 

            "Oh, you shouldn't be afraid, Mr. Solo, or at least, not yet.  There will be more than ample time for being afraid in the moments to follow."  A bright light illuminated the immediate area and both men blinked in pain.

 

            "I don't believe that we've been properly introduced,” Solo said, trying to adjust their position to release some of the pressure upon both himself and his partner.  He was taller than Illya, but it was mostly in their legs.  Their torsos were nearly the same, but there was still that little bit that put exerted extra force upon them.

 

             "Oh, how rude of me."  The red‑haired man strode closer, bowing in the eerie light, kneeling before the two on one bent knee.  "Dietrick, Hans Dietrick:  THRUSH agent, leader of the Abstergo Caterva and your executioner."

 

            "Pardon me for not getting up.  Am I correct in assuming you’re the one who's been making our present task harder than usual?"  

 

            “Ah, you like my little invention then?  I call them tandem manacles. Of course, they are especially efficient when there’s a size difference.  If you were to stand, Mr. Solo, you’d find it particularly awkward and a little more than painful.  In fact, one of you would probably end up with a dislocated shoulder.”

 

            “So I’ve ascertained,” Solo said.  

 

            "You two aren't the easiest prey...people I've had to deal with."   Dietrick straightened, tugging his polo shirt into place.  “Some of your escapes have been downright the stuff of legends.”

 

            "I'm sure we're flattered.  Now, would you like to tell us what this is all about?"

 

            "My question exactly, Mr. Solo.  Who is that little old lady?"

 

            "Should we tell him, Illya?"  Solo craned his neck around towards the Russian.

 

            "What difference does it make?  He's going to kill us anyway."  Solo could feel Illya shrugged his shoulders.  “It’s not like he’s going to let us go.  When they start gloating like this, they never let us go.”

 

            "Your optimism is overwhelming, Mr. Kuryakin." Dietrick gave a laugh that raised no one's spirits but his own.  “By the time death comes around to claim you, you will be craving it, begging for it.”

 

            "I wouldn’t be so sure about that."  He struggled with the manacles, trying to rotate his wrists, one to feel skin give way to metal.  They were so tight that the blood supply to his hands was nearly cut off.  He had to reckon that Solo was in a similar situation.  “You didn’t have to take our clothes though.”

 

            “And run the risk of you employing one of your many devices there to affect an escape?  I think not, my blond friend.  I shall have to remember this when I write the memoirs of my career.  You still haven't answered my question.  Who is she?"

 

             "Beats the hell out of me.  Do you know, Napoleon?"

 

            “Not a clue.”

 

            A long‑fingered hand snatched at the blond hair and forced Illya's head back. "Mr. Kuryakin, your quipping comes at a particularly bad time.  I'm tired, I'm in trouble with my superior because of you and your partner, and I'm more than slightly annoyed at how long it's taken to get you reduced to your present position.  Who is Phidelia Estabrook?"

 

        "He's telling you the truth," Solo protested, feeling the Russian muscles tremble.  "We don't know who she is.  All we know is that we're supposed to take her where she wants to go and keep her away from bad guys like you."

 

        "Why would I believe you, Mr. Kuryakin?"  Dietrick released Illya's hair and smoothed it back into place.  "You flatter me and it's no matter if you don't want to tell me.  I just thought you might want to save the old woman a little discomfort from the truth serum we'll have to feed her otherwise."   He backed off into the darkness, taking the only source of illumination with him.  "I'm going to leave you to reflect upon your fate."

 

            "Ah, excuse me," Solo cleared his throat.  "I don't mean to be too forward, but would you care to explain what that might entail?  After you leave, we'll just have to guess at what's happening, since you’re carrying the only flashlight."

 

            "Oh, I didn't mention that?" Dietrick laughed again, with a vicious edge to the sound.  "We've set you up in a pseudo grave robber’s trap, very useful for eliminating bothersome UNCLE agents.  When I slam this door, sand will start to pour in from the ceiling.  Now, suffocating in sand can be a horrible way to die, so we have improvised something to make it quicker.  The sand will stop at about chin level and that's when the scorpions are released.  Of course...," Dietrick trailed off as he circled the pair.  "That would only be in you chose to remain sitting.  , but considering Mr. Kuryakin's stature, it will already be too late ‑ he'll be in over his head.  Standing would give you more of a chance of surviving, Mr. Solo, but at what cost to your partner?  Have a good death, gentlemen."

 

            Dietrick backed out and slammed the door.

 

            Illya sighed and felt Solo relax even as he became aware of a dusty edge to the air and the none‑too‑distant hissing of falling sand.

 

            "When we signed up, nobody told me there would be a clause for this in my contract."

 

            "Clause?  What on Earth about you going on..." Solo trailed off and then groaned long and loud.  "A sandy clause?  Illya, it's a good thing we're going to die.  Otherwise, I'd choke you for that one."

 

            His partner started to chuckle, which turned into coughing as he tried to clear the dust from his throat.  "Is there any chance of getting these bracelets off?"

 

            "No, and even if I could get to my watch, it wouldn't do much good.  The walls are about a foot to three feet thick."

 

            "It looks like our time might have just run out, my friend."  It was getting harder to breathe as sand dust grew thicker in the air.  The sand was up to their waist by now.

 

            "Don't give up hope, Illya.  We're still alive and that's something."

 

            "Please, Napoleon, don't go optimistic on me.  Allow me a peaceful death."

 

            A new voice cut in.  "But who's going to die, dear?  It took a moment for either of them to place the voice as Phidelia.  Solo spun his head from side to side, trying to locate the origin of the voice.

 

            "Mrs. Estabrook, what are you doing here?"

 

            "I've gotten tired of all this sand.  Since those boys back there weren't about to oblige me, I decided to look up the two men who would."

 

            A shaft of light finally betrayed her position as she padded into the room's grit‑clouded air.

 

            "Heavens, we've got to get you boys out of here before you suffocate."  She drew out a handkerchief from the sleeve of her robe and held it tightly to her mouth, stooping to examine to the shackles that were holding Napoleon and Illya.  "Now, what was it that Harry Houdini said?"

 

            She fumbled with the manacle on Napoleon's wrist and it fell away, freeing it.

 

            "How did you do that?"  Illya was incredulous as she repeated the process upon his wrist.

 

             "Old family secret, dear."  She continued the process until both men were able to stand.  "Now, gentlemen, what do you say to a less hostile environment?   Like, possibly Switzerland?"  Onward and upward?”

 

            “That might be a bit awkward in our present state of undress,” Napoleon admitted and the old woman’s cheeks reddened.  

 

            “Oh my yes, I’d quite forgotten about that.  Just you two wait one more second.”

 

            “How did she do that, Napoleon?”  Illya asked, still sitting in the sand.  “It’s going to take a week to get all this sand off.”  

 

 Napoleon tried to examine one of the manacles in the dim light.  “They seem rusty…maybe that’s...”  Then Solo realized it wasn’t rust that colored the metal but blood.  “Forget what I said, these things are as new as they come.  No springs, no pins, no idea.”

 

            “Here you go, my sweets,” Phidelia said, reappearing in the doorway, carrying a neat bundle in her hands.  “I think these will fit nicely.  I’m a bit of an old fashioned girl, so Ill just wait out in the hallway to avoid any embarrassment to Mr. Kuryakin.”

 

            “Why would you embarrass her,” Solo asked as the Russian clamored to his feet.  “Ah, your bare…”

 

            “Yes,” Illya muttered as he began to brush sand from his skin.

 

 

 

            Napoleon Solo relaxed with a nice cappuccino in front of a roaring fireplace.  A large part of this afternoon had been spent locked away in a secluded ski chalet with a friend of his.  It had felt wonderful to be relieved of their guest for a few hours and to pursue more physical exercise.  In fact, he’d barely had time to sip at his drink before spotting his partner and their charge.  Mrs. Estabrook was wearing a very fluffy, very pink ski outfit.  Her hair was slightly windblown and her cheeks were a rosy pink.

 

            Solo raised a cup in greeting at them.  "How was the skiing today, my Russian raccoon?"

 

            Illya grinned, raising a hand to his wind‑burned nose.  "Not bad for firm pack.  They say we should get a foot of powder tonight.  It should be spectacular tomorrow."

 

            "As long as I don't have to go out in it tonight, that's wonderful."  Solo signaled the cocktail waitress.  "I’ve made dinner reservations for seven.  And you, Mrs. Estabrook, did you enjoy your time on the slopes."

 

            "I am chilly."  She replied as she flapped her arms, "but it's a wonderful change from all that sand."

 

            "I'll certainly drink to that." Solo laughed, hazel brown eyes twinkling with contentment.  "What would you like?  I already know what Illya's is vodka ‑ straight up."

 

            She motioned to Solo's cup.  "I think one of those coffee things like you have.  Mr. Kuryakin makes that skiing look so easy.  I should have looked into it a few hundred years ago."

 

            "You know what they say about never being too old to..."  Solo's face went blank as he stared past the waitress towards a large-paned window into the encroaching night.

 

            "Napoleon, what's wrong?"

 

             "I just saw him, though that window."

 

            "Who?"  Phidelia peered over her shoulder.  "All I see is snow."

 

            "Dietrick?"  Illya ventured.  "But we left him in Egypt."

 

            "Apparently, not for long."

 

            “How is he finding us?”

 

            “Oh,” Solo groaned at his own stupidity.  “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.  Illya, what’s the first thing you do when preparing to take off?”

 

            “Visual check, instrument check, emergency supplies, beacons, flare, and a hundred other things.”

 

            “Before any of that – the very, very first thing.”

 

            “I file…”  Realization began to dawn upon the Russian and he finished with a flat voice.  “a flight plan.  Remind me, next time I’ll just send an engraved invitation. Should I call for reinforcements?   The Genoa office could have someone here by morning."

 

             "With that storm coming in?  I don't think they'll make it in time.  Still, it might be good to alert them.  I don't think the Old Man be terribly pleased with us if we didn’t follow protocol."

 

 

 

            Dietrick pulled back from the window, unsure of whether or not Solo had spotted him.  Not that it really mattered.  They'd know he was here soon enough.

 

            And he had words to exchange with that old woman. First, he wanted to know just how she managed to waltz away from five of his best men ‑ six if he counted himself, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to.  Then he'd like to know how she undid Solo's and Kuryakin's manacles and how all three of them walked out of a booby‑trapped room without attracting anyone's attention, especially his.  Dietrick was getting a peculiar feeling about her.

 

            This time he wouldn't take any chances.  The moment the opportunity presented itself, he'd kill both UNCLE agents ‑ no flair, no style, just a bullet to the head.

 

            He chafed his hands together and glanced around the small village, just now being encroached upon by dusk. Perhaps a sauna would be just the place to formulate a plan and work out the details and it would be a safe spot to hide out for a short time.

 

             Presently, Dietrick was sitting at the far end of a wooden bench, staring at the birch wall of the sauna, letting his thoughts flow as freely as the sweat running down his back.  His face was covered lightly by a towel and he just sat there, listening to his own breathing, his own heartbeat.

 

            He didn't bother to look when he heard the door open, feeling a twinge of annoyance at having his solitude interrupted.  The vexation disappeared as he recognized the voices and he forced himself to remain calm.

 

            "You really should have come with me today, Napoleon.  You may not get a chance to ski again for a while, especially with all that talk about rebel uprising in Venezuela.  We'll probably be spending the next four months in the jungle."  The Russian’s voice was casual, relaxed even, as if he had no idea who he’d walked in upon.

 

            “I’m on Estabrook patrol tomorrow though.  Thanks for this afternoon, by the way.

 

            “No problem.  I figured that it had been nearly a week since you’d been pursing one of you favorite past times.  I also knew that Giselle lived nearby and a relaxed and sated UNCLE agent is much more efficient than the opposite.  This I know from experience.”

 

            “She asked after you, by the way.  Any idea what our guest has in mind?”

 

            “Nope, but I’m sure it will be an adventure.  You should have seen her handle those slopes, Napoleon, better than a woman half her age.  With the way she got us out of that trap in Egypt, I'm beginning to feel as if she should be taking care of us and not the opposite.  There was something very wrong there, Napoleon. You don't just walk away from a THRUSH trap without even getting shot at."

 

            "I know.  There are a lot of things about her that bother me.  Like the way she keeps changing accents to suit the area we're in.  She's even better at dialects than you, old boy."

 

            The conversation was easy; it was obvious that neither man had recognized him.  Of course, it had been very dark in that pyramid and they’d only gotten a brief glimpse of his face.  Dietrick thought fast.  If he could get out, without attracting attention, he'd be able to get to his gun in his locker.

 

            Slowly, he rose, wrapping the towel tighter about his waist.  Their voices had become softer, but it was apparent they still were unaware of him.  He was just a step from the door, his hand outstretched for the knob when he heard the soft question.

 

            "Leaving so soon, Hans, old boy?"  Solo's voice was calm, but the edge on it promised trouble.  "We were hoping you'd stay longer.  Napoleon watched the conflict play over Dietrick's face ‑ desperate for flight for self preservation, yet unwilling to die without a fight.   All of it seemed centered in the man's hand so close to the door latch, yet not near enough to make it before a bullet could travel to him.  The tall German sighed and dropped his arm, turning to face his foe.  Both UNCLE agents were fully clothed, as opposed to Dietrick.

 

             "Since you put it that way, Mr. Solo, I do suppose I could manage a few more minutes."

 

            "Excellent."  Napoleon sensed that the man was still ready to make a break for it.  He knew without looking that Illya was waiting, balanced for anything.  "I have a relative back in New York who'd just love to get together with you for a little chat."

 

        "I'm very fond of conversation...myself!"  Dietrick threw his towel at Solo, blinding him for a brief second.  By the time Solo had pulled away the terry cloth, Dietrick was again close to gaining his freedom and Illya was on the floor, groggily trying to get to his feet taking a massive two-fisted punch in the stomach from Dietrick.

 

            It usually took more than one well‑placed blow to fall the blond, but Solo didn't dwell upon it.  He flung himself at Dietrick.

 

            Dietrick, however proved to have a formidably precise delivery with his punches, and his desire to escape was close to frenzy.  Napoleon found himself abruptly flung back into Illya, who had just managed to stand.  Both of them sat down with a thump.

 

            "Whose side are you on, Napoleon?"  Illya pushed him back, but the German was out the door.  "Well, he won't go far."

 

            "What do you mean?"  Solo offered him a hand up.

 

            "Dressed the way he was?"  Illya rose, snatching up Dietrick's towel from the sauna floor.  "How many places can a plucked THRUSH hide?"

 

            When he opened the door, however, a blast of gunfire bit into the wall close to his head.  He threw himself back inside the protection of the sauna and hunched his shoulders.

 

            "Of course, if he had a gun in his locker, I don't suppose it matters."  He looked back towards Napoleon. "Suggestions, Great White Hunter?"

 

            Napoleon retrieved his own gun and slid along the wall to the door jamb just far enough to get off a quick, hastily aimed shot at their foe.

 

             Illya hazarded a look and shook his head.  "That's one dead locker, Napoleon.  We'll be lucky if you don't get arrested for willful damage to private property.  Try down about 10 degrees and slightly to your left."

 

            Solo scowled at him and again took aim, this time following Illya's directions.  He was rewarded by a shout of pain mingled with fury.  He got to his head around the door jam just in time to see Dietrick darting through another door.

 

             "So, our THRUSH friend makes good his escape, naked or not."

 

            "Not necessarily through that door, Napoleon."  Illya walked out into the corridor leading to the locker room.  "That particular door leads only to the women's locker room.  As I recall, there is on way out, except through a very tiny window in the shower, which he much too big for, and the door.  That will dump him right back here into the gym. And that,” Illya pointed to a pair of double doors.  “Is really the only way out of here.”

 

             "Oh and how do we know this?"  Solo's interest was piqued.  

 

            “It’s a rather long, very dull story.  Ready for some mousing?"

 

            "Lead on, McDuff."

 

 

 

            Carefully, Napoleon pushed open the sauna door, peering about in the near dark of the gym.  Various pieces of equipment provided more than enough suitable places to hide, along the way, but Solo kept his attention focused upon the door leading to the ladies locker room.

 

            “Any chance he might have a hostage in there?”

 

            “Possible, but unlikely.  The place is pretty dead during the cocktail hour here.”

 

            “And again, should I ask how you know this?”

 

            Illya shot from his spot by the door and dove behind a weight bench.  “I prefer a bit of privacy for my woo pitching.”  There wasn’t a hint of movement from across the gym and Solo darted out of his spot to join the Russian, who, at the same moment, swapped his position for another piece of equipment.

 

            Napoleon started to make his move when the sharp crack of a hand gun sent him to the floor.

 

            "So the man has class enough not to shoot at Russians.  He’s smarter than he looks," returned Illya in a half whisper.  Illya made a motion with his hand and Solo nodded.  He returned fire, listening to his bullets ‘chuff’ into the heavy wood of the locker room door.  

 

             Illya moved through the gym without perceptible noise, not a difficult task, considering the racket his partner and Dietrick were making.  He was almost within striking distance when Dietrick suddenly glanced out of the door to his left and straight at Illya.

 

            Illya started to move, but caught his toe on the edge of a floor mat and went down with a grunt.  Dietrick's bullet whistled through the air inches above his head.  Just lucky, he thought, or Napoleon would be in the market for another partner now. He rolled and took cover behind a set of racked dumbbells before the man could get off another shot.  

 

            There wasn't much cover and Illya frantically looked for something, anything that would give him an advantage. He grabbed a dumbbell and flung it at the German for all he was worth.

 

            Dietrick brought his arm up protectively, and Illya followed the dumbbell, slamming into the man's stomach and knocking him off his feet.  This time, Illya had the advantage and he wasn't about to give it up.  Balling his hands together, he brought them down on Dietrick's throat.  The THRUSH gurgled a protest, but Illya continued relentlessly.  By the time Solo pulled him off, Dietrick was unconscious and bloodied.

 

            "Enough, Illya, he’s no good to us dead."

 

            "I only killed him a little bit," Illya shrugged off Solo's hands from him and began to massage his bruised knuckles.  "What should we do with him?"

 

            "Well," Solo hesitated as he studied the immediate area.  "I think we should leave him for the proper authorities.  Our people will be here in the morning.  Do you think you could tie him up well enough to keep him in one spot until then?"

 

             Illya smiled slightly, his eyes dropping to the unconscious, still naked man.  "It would be an honor."

 

 

 

            They walked into the lobby of their hotel, both feeling rather smug about their night's activity.

 

            "I still think it was nasty of you not to dress Dietrick first," Solo spoke softly.  "I can only hope that our men get here before anyone thinks to question that ‘out of order’ sign on the women’s spa.”

 

             "Not to worry.  It’ll take three hours just to jimmy that lock.  Even if Dietrick managed to get loose, there’s no place for him to go.  It serves him right."  Illya rubbed at his back.  "I won't be able to sit properly for a week."  He paused as Solo looked off and did a double take.  He looked too and then stared himself.

 

            There, sitting among by her suitcase was Phidelia, her coat and hat on, the bamboo umbrella poised upon her knees.

 

             "Mrs. Estabrook?" Solo finally found his voice. "What are you doing?"

 

            "It's been all very nice and you and Mr. Kuryakin have been very gracious hosts, but I have a sudden urge to curtail my wanderings.  I guess seeing all this snow has made me homesick for..."

 

             "Yes?" Illya was immediately attentive.

 

            Her grin grew wider and the blue eyes' vividness increased.  "Home, Mr. Kuryakin.  Would you file one more flight plan?"

 

            "Of course."  Disappointed, he continued. "And where shall we take you?  Kennedy Airport?  Dulles? O’Hara?"

 

            "Cape Canaveral, Mr. Kuryakin."

 

             The two men, not entirely surprised, exchanged glances and Solo shook his head.

 

             "Florida, Ma'am?  Is there even a landing strip there?"  The second part of the question was directed to his partner.

 

             "Cape Canaveral Air Force Station has a skid strip.  I could put down there, providing I can get the clearance.”

 

 

 

            Their trip there was uneventful, to Solo's and Kuryakin's frustration.  Any attempt to approach Phidelia only let her successfully avoid giving additional information.  Their mood didn't improve as they followed her down the long, tiled corridors of the Cape Canaveral space center, especially when she led them to a heavily reinforced blast door. Immediately, the guard stationed thee, snapped to attention.

 

             "Restricted area, people," the guard informed them. Solo reached into his pocket for his UNCLE identification card.

 

            "We're from UNCLE."

 

            "That's nice for you, but this is still a restricted area." The guard nodded at Phidelia without moving anymore than his head.  "You can go on in, Ma'am."

 

            "Thank you, son."  She turned back to both men, smiling at their puzzled faces.  "Good bye, dears, I shall sincerely miss you both, Mr. Solo.  Mr. Kuryakin, I'm glad you got that nasty tooth taken care of.  I wish for a very full, very long life for you both."  She waved and stepped through the door. The guard immediately took up his position in front of it, barring their entrance.

 

            "Napoleon, I think I'm getting more confused now." Illya said, deadpan.

 

            "Welcome to the club.  Excuse me, soldier, but where exactly does that lead?"

 

            "To the launching pad, sir.”

 

Illya thought for a moment, and then said, "Don't you people have an experimental docking ship going up today?"

 

            "Yes, sir."

 

             They started away.  "And what did you hope to accomplish with that?" Solo asked.

 

            "Oh, I don't know, Napoleon, just a hunch.  Come on, I'll buy you some coffee."

 

            "I'd rather have something to eat.  I can’t remember when I had a real sit down meal.”

Solo grumbled and then grimaced, putting a hand to his cheek.

 

            "Something wrong, Napoleon?"  Illya placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

            "I seem to have inherited your toothache, partner."

 

            "That's great!  I know this fantastic dentist in Beijing..."

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
